SOAP BOX
Hiding under duvets,
behind closed curtains,
and typed distant apology notes.
I’m awkwardly twisting around,
my stamped on soap box,
scattered in my sheets,
keeping me awake.
The sharp edges push into,
my skin, and bones and being.
Hook my hair down with shame.
I could easily sweep it off,
brush her away.
but it was the leftover memorial,
of past lovers reflections,
and reactions of me.
I needed to understand,
its fragility,
its right for existence.
Before I could simply
slap more glue,
another relationship
on it.
I met a young boy once,
older than his time.
he spoke about life,
like he had lived it
more than mine.
I said you need a soap box,
to be heard.
He told me I already have one,
under my bum.
The city walls seem quite tall,
far out stretching the sun.
So I thought I needed one,
to be able to stand,
and keep my love alive.
But maybe he was right.
Maybe love exists,
beyond a screaming proud room,
defending in fight.
Love exists in eye to eye,
it’s nothing to do with heights.
Its hard to face,
the journey inside.
To keep trying to hug new loves,
with the ghosts in my mind.
The splinters speak out to me,
pierce my skin for light.
Your heart maybe guarded,
by guards running fast.
But even they can become tired,
of numbing out your hurt.
I can’t trust anyone,
and I am mean to blame.
I’m so caught up in my need to feel,
my partners become an angry face.
I stroke but with hidden rage.
I become a show piece,
loosing myself to please.
My legs lock, want me, want me.
And its so innocent,
but its not love,
Its a cage welded slowly,
again and again.
A cage around a cage.
Your too tough, to rough,
not enough.
You have anger not dealt with,
not my stuff.
I tell myself we don’t fit,
not enough patience anymore,
to resist.
I keep busy,
under duvets until its passed,
but now I listen to my hurt.
